


the only choice left

by alternatedoom



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Ableism, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bondage, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Forced Masturbation, Forced Orgasm, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Sexual Dysfunction, Sexual Slavery, Situational Humiliation, Stockholm Syndrome, Threats of Violence, Threesome, Unreliable Narrator, Verbal Humiliation, Warcraft Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 00:12:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5312372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alternatedoom/pseuds/alternatedoom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garrosh can do anything he wants. But failure is not an option.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the only choice left

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Garrosh/Anduin set before, in and around [_nor can pleasure smile here_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4872040). Written for the World of Warcraft Kink Meme. Unlike that fill, this story contains graphic rape scenes. Please steer clear if you're not here for depressing noncon.  
>  2\. The Garrosh I was mostly aiming for was Christie Golden's terse, self-controlled _War Crimes_ Garrosh who's taken an inexplicable shine to Anduin ~~and just wants to hang and talk about Anduin's fear, nothing weird about that~~ , but I tried to fold in genius tactician Garrosh, honorable Garrosh and cruel, egotistical Orc Hitler. I do not know that it worked. My Garrosh might just be a mess with a too-large vocabulary. But I adore Garrosh despite him becoming a complete monster, and what Blizz did with him was undeniably a hot mess, so like Cartman, I'll do what I want.

The vast majority of the orcs of Durotar sleep in hammocks. The orcs of Nagrand prefer woven mats laid on smooth packed dirt. Garrosh might have had a hammock tied up in his rooms as well, for he likes the idea of living as his people do, at least in theory, and he is of Orgrimmar now too, but he's more comfortable on the floor. The deal was sealed when he discovered hammocks are annoying places to try to fuck.

So he sticks to his mat. And because he is the warchief, and because his mat lies on cut stone and not the relative softness of the earth, Garrosh has a large alcove in his chambers devoted to a luxurious mat of the finest beaten hemp, padded with thick hides beneath. There are a couple of furs, for Orgrimmar grows cold at night, tossed amidst a number of pillows and stiff cushions.

That's where he half-reclines, naked, when he orders the boy stripped and brought to him.

Garrosh rests his back against a hard cushion pressed to the wall and the back of his head against his interlaced fingers as he waits. His cock is sprawled soft across his left leg.

He hadn't thought much of the prince of Stormwind when they'd met during that nonsense peace summit Thrall had insisted on attending in Theramore. The prince had been younger then, even smaller of stature especially next to his father, and Garrosh had hardly taken notice of him. 

His impression of Varian's whelp had drastically changed in Kun-Lai. When he'd come to face Garrosh on the cliffs, he'd come alone, and barely armed, and he'd shown no fear. There'd been no real aggression in him, either, merely a forceful will and determination completely at odds with his tiny build. Garrosh had thought of the calm fire in the boy's eyes and the strength in his voice more than a few times in the months after. He'd been astonished when he found out Anduin had somehow survived, but strangely, he was not truly displeased.

Garrosh didn't overanalyze it.

The boy had sworn to obey him today. Obey his every command. Malkorok and Ag'toz and a couple of the others had tested his resolve by face-fucking him. He'd had a difficult time keeping his mouth open wide enough, his eyes had watered all over his face, and he'd gagged quite a bit, but even when Malkorok had strangled him a little, Varian's whelp had fought against showing his fear. It was... interesting.

Anduin appears in the entryway of his chambers, halting after taking him in at a glance. But he doesn't seem surprised, and he doesn't look afraid. Garrosh knows he has to be fearful, even if he's concealing it--his jumpiness had given him away earlier. On his knees, a hand laid on his shoulder from behind had been enough to startle him to the point of jerking. His gasping breaths had continued long after he'd regained his air. 

Garrosh would bet a lot of gold that he's only marginally more settled now, however he presents himself. He has to know what's coming--he's been brought before the warchief naked as the day he came into the world, and Garrosh isn't wearing a stitch either. But the boy seems at least outwardly steadfast. 

"Prepare yourself." Garrosh minutely lifts his chin towards a jar on a small table beside the door.

Anduin's stance is careful as he balances on his obviously bad leg, leaning against the doorway. "For...?"

"For me." Garrosh deliberately drops his eyes to his lap, then looks back up to Anduin. 

The boy just looks at him for few long seconds. Perhaps Anduin is not as intelligent as he'd thought. Or more likely... no...

"You can't possibly be this sheltered," Garrosh growls.

Anduin's cheeks turn a peculiar shade of salmon as he shakes his head no. Following his brief downward gaze, Anduin stares at Garrosh's cock, visibly hesitating. Probably it has to be bigger than he's ever seen in his pathetic protected life.

"Changed your mind already?"

"I said I would do whatever you wanted." The whelp's voice is quiet and submissive. His words are not quite agreement, not quite a denial. "What do you want me to do? Exactly?"

Garrosh only flicks his eyes again to the jar and turns his head infintesimally, more of a twitch than anything else. In his time wasted on efforts towards diplomacy, Garrosh has noticed humans use a lot of words. Many more words than they need. Boring, disingenuous words. Orcs speak their minds with a fraction of the polite bunk and five times the honesty, so convey more in the same amount of time, and orcs communicate more even beyond that with far superior body language. The difference probably cements the humans' perception of them as savages, but Garrosh thinks the orcish way is better. It's fuller, more upfront, and more subtle all at the same time.

Varian's whelp isn't stupid. He'll pick up on it, soon or late, if Garrosh keeps him around. Fewer words, more action. Slaves, his slaves, will pay attention and intuit. Or he'll kill them.

Anduin finally looks in the direction Garrosh has indicated. He picks up the jar, turning it over in his hands, and gazes down at it for a second.

"Need to shit first?"

Anduin blinks at him, then mutely shakes his head and looks back at the jar in his hands.

"Whatever you do, it won't be enough to make this easy on you," Garrosh warns, and a smug little smile curves around his tusks.

"I can see that," Anduin says evenly, his eyes lingering on Garrosh's cock again. 

"But it will make it easier. So do it."

Anduin uncaps the jar, dipping his fingers in the clear jelly inside. Keeping his face composed, still facing Garrosh, he bends at the waist and reaches back.

"No. Come here."

Anduin straightens and limps over to him, taking the alcove in as he approaches--the mat, the furs, the pillars at each corner. Anduin pauses the barest moment before stepping onto the soft hemp mat, then picks his way through the strewn cushions, still holding the jar in one hand, the other curled around a glob of the contents. He stops and stands lopsided within arm's reach, awaiting further instructions.

"Turn around. On your hands and knees."

Expressionless, Anduin follows his directions, presenting his backside. His asshole looks standard, no different from any orc's, save for its unnatural pink color.

Garrosh unlaces his fingers from behind his head and takes his cock in one hand. Garrosh begins to stroke his hand over himself, slowly. He's still soft, because the sight of the prince undressed is decidedly not enough to do it for him, but he's gradually hardening, because knowing Anduin will do anything he's told is considerably more arousing.

"Now. Open yourself."

Anduin reaches back and presses one fingertip against his hole, by necessity at a slight angle. Garrosh watches him try and fail a few times to push his finger inside, while it becomes clearer with each attempt that the prince has never had anything put into his ass before.

"When you push in, push out," Garrosh advises curtly.

Anduin pauses to process that. He reaches back again and this time, his slickened finger penetrates the ring of muscle. Garrosh gives his own cock a long squeeze, then pulls his foreskin down and back. Watching, he lets Anduin have a few moments to adjust.

"A second finger. Part them."

Anduin manages to get another finger inside. The insertion is jerky, but successful. But he separates his index and middle fingers only anemically.

"Farther apart." Garrosh says it tersely and hears the note of impatience in his own voice.

Anduin slowly widens the spread of his fingers. He hisses out a breath, but he finally seems to take the point of the enterprise to heart. After half a minute of fucking his own ass with two fingers and slightly parting them occasionally, just as Garrosh is about to tell him to add a third, Anduin lowers his forehead and chest fully to the mat, reaches back with both hands, and hooks two fingertips from each hand into his stretched pink asshole.

It's better. Garrosh lets him do that for a minute. Nothing Anduin could do with his thin fingers would be enough to prepare him, but his headway will be sufficient to begin.

He taps Anduin twice on one asscheek, and beckons him forth when he turns his head. Garrosh is well-endowed even for an orc, and though he prefers to be on top, for anal he typically allows his partners to start out in his lap, to slide down his shaft little by little, at their own pace. He will do the young prince of Stormwind, who has not come to his mat by choice, the same courtesy.

Anduin gamely climbs into his lap, gingerly putting his hands on the corded muscle of Garrosh's shoulders like he isn't sure where else to put them. His eyes are wide, but still not afraid. He looks, if anything, a little defiant.

"And now me," Garrosh says, indicating with his eyes.

Anduin puts somewhat more pressure on Garrosh's left shoulder as he leans down and takes up the jar again, scooping out a palmful of the jelly and smearing it over Garrosh's cock, which is hard all the way now. Anduin's hands are neither gentle nor rough, his touch neither light nor especially firm. A middling, neutral touch. He evidently decides he hasn't used enough lubricant, for he goes back for more. He applies the jelly while examining Garrosh's row of lower piercings.

"You have no idea what you're in for, do you," Garrosh says, and he feels his cock twitch in Anduin's hands.

It's not a question that requires a response, but Anduin glances up at him and pauses before answering, awkwardly. "No, not really."

He studies Anduin another moment as the prince bends his head and goes back to the brown column of flesh jutting up between them, wrapping a hand around it experimentally, as if he's measuring Garrosh's girth by the distance left between his thumb and forefinger.

The boy is not a sexually desirable specimen. Perhaps to his own kind, but Garrosh doubts even that. His skin is a sickly pale color, and his shoulders are so narrow they're almost spindly. Short and without a muscle to speak of, he probably can't wield anything larger than the wand he calls a mace, and his right leg looks to be irreparably damaged--he walks with barely masked pain and a limp so substantial it's a stagger. Visually, the only intriguing thing about him is his mess of scars. Garrosh's gift to him.

Yet the idea of dominating him is entertaining. The prince has fire and mettle to him. His body may be broken, but his spirit isn't weak. He'd proved that in Kun-Lai, and again this morning.

And the appeal, beyond all other reasons: it will destroy Varian. 

"You're not much to look at," Garrosh tells him, disdainful.

Anduin blinks again, incredulously, his composure stripped away in an instant, and his hands turn motionless on Garrosh's cock as though he's stunned. A number of emotions pass over his face in a microsecond--mostly he looks shocked and amazed, but there's a touch of hurt in his expression as well, unless Garrosh misses his guess, and he doesn't. "You think I'm ugly?" Anduin gives him a baffled, searching look. "Then why am I here?"

Garrosh shifts backwards an inch, straightening his spine and cracking his back to the one side and then the other, and he jostles the prince as he resettles a bit more upright. "To make a point."

Anduin moves with him, the bottoms of his thighs rubbing with warm friction over the tops of Garrosh's. A portion of his self-possession returns, and he raises a respectful eyebrow, as though they're only talking, his manner for all the world that of an apprentice seeking to learn at an elder's side. "What is the point?" Anduin asks him.

"That I won," Garrosh says brutally. "And you lost."

Anduin swallows--the sound is not audible, but Garrosh can tell by the conspicuous human-male bump that rises and falls in his throat. But Anduin says nothing to that, dropping his eyes and resuming the task set before him. The boy's coated his shaft plenty but the application has turned into stroking him, hand over hand now, and it's not bad. Garrosh doesn't even get the sense that the prince is trying to postpone the inevitable, merely that he's casually taking the initiative in doing what he thinks might be expected of him. Garrosh notices, though, because not much escapes him, the unmistakable tremor running through Anduin's hands.

"Did I give you all these?" Garrosh asks, low and taunting, trailing his fingers over the ridges of pronounced scar tissue scattered along the boy's chest and stomach. They both know the origin of the damage done.

"Yes," Anduin says, glancing up at his face.

"They suit you," Garrosh tells him. And he means it.

"Stop," he orders next, and Anduin removes his hands from Garrosh's cock and rubs them absently against his pale thighs, wiping away the excess slickness. "Hold your cheeks apart." Garrosh pulls Anduin's ass up and forward, positioning him. Garrosh props his cock upright with one hand and leaves the other on Anduin's hip, moving him incrementally, trying to locate his hole from this angle and line him up for penetration. When he finds the boy's little pucker, he rests the tip of his cock against it.

"Push out," he says again, and he can feel when Anduin obeys him. In the half-open tightness that follows, Garrosh is able to squeeze in a fraction, not even a third of the head, but it's a start. Anduin makes a strangled noise but doesn't writhe or fight to get off him.

"Breathe," he tells the prince brusquely, because Anduin's scarred chest looks to be frozen and all his muscles are tensed. Anduin draws in a shaky, fractured breath.

Garrosh wasn't planning to take this part especially slowly--he is not known for his great patience--and it's why he supervised Anduin stretching himself open and prodded him to do better than a half-assed job. But neither did he intend to rush, because he has plans for this pale human that don't include bleeding out from the rectum.

He's taken aback when Anduin rushes.

Anduin closes his eyes and mumbles something, whispers, and Garrosh feels a strange but somehow familiar tingling on the tip of his cock. The boy begins to sink down faster than Garrosh would ever have expected he physically could, let alone would choose to, let alone without screaming, and Garrosh looks at the prince sharply when he realizes Anduin is _glowing_.

The pale white-yellow glow is faint, but definite, and Varian's spawn is using the Light, of all things, to heal himself as they go, or ease the pain, or something. It's unexpected, but after a second Garrosh just goes with it, thrusting up and contributing to the end of Anduin's downward press with heavy hands on his narrow hips. If the prince can take it, Garrosh isn't going to go easy on him. Anduin moans once as Garrosh gets all the way inside, and he pitches forward, planting his face in Garrosh's chest, but that's all. It's less fuss than most orcs make taking it from Garrosh in the ass.

Garrosh's whole cock tingles. The sensation is like a thousand faint, sweet, pleasurable prickles, and his cock feels massive and rock-hard and ready. He's had minor injuries resolved by a priest a time or two, but it hadn't occurred to him what that tingling healing feeling might be like on his cock, accompanied by the tight, wet heat of a well-slicked asshole.

Garrosh had planned to flip the boy on his back once he was fully in, but Anduin recovers, lifts his head and straightens, and rises from the place where his thighs meet Garrosh's. He begins to work himself on Garrosh's cock, so Garrosh lets him, interested to see what he'll do, whether he'll try to make it good, or even whether he might get into it since he's evidently not suffering much. The fit is tight, borderline too constricting to be comfortable even for Garrosh, and Anduin moves slowly at first. He keeps his eyes mostly shut.

Anduin picks up the pace a bit as he loosens up ever so slightly and starts to find a rhythm. The prince stays soft, and he makes no move to touch himself. His petite pink cock flops up and down and about as Garrosh pushes up into him, meeting the movements of Anduin's hips as they roll and flex. Anduin's limpness is dissatisfying, somehow.

Anduin's eyes startle open when Garrosh closes a hand around his dick. One good squeeze and Garrosh could crush it into a pulp, but he keeps his fist loose as he jerks Anduin, who hardens almost immediately with the direct stimulation.

The boy stares at him, panting, his hips rising and descending, his skin still glowing, as though there's a star buried inside him and the light is coming through his pores.

Garrosh is already close to coming. He normally has a great deal of sexual stamina--he can get it up for hours, and he can go all night. But taking sexual possession of Varian's progeny has given him a sense of triumph almost as strong as the sight of Stormwind aflame from where he watched in the Horde gunship above. He's won, and it feels like a fiery liquor in his chest, like the pure ready energy in every limb before a fight, and although the fit inside Anduin is tighter than he needs, the tingling sensation all over his cock is novel to say the least. Like the brush of a thousand fingertips, all faintly electric, all seeking nothing more than to pleasure him.

"I own you," he grunts, fast and rough. "In every way."

He lets go of Anduin's little dick and slaps one pasty asscheek hard enough to sting, partly to see if the light energy suffusing him is protecting his whole body from pain, or whether the prince is directing the relief internally and the glow is a byproduct. And partly, of course, he does it just because he wants to. At the impact, Anduin cries aloud in a startled, satisfying way, but the ring of muscle in his ass clenches harder around the cock already so tightly inside him. The additional squeeze compresses Garrosh's flesh at the base worse than an ill-fitting cock ring a size too small. Any other time Garrosh would deliver the symmetry of a second smack. Instead he rubs the boy's lower back with one hand to make him relax a bit and loosen back up. The tenderness makes Anduin open his eyes warily, but he never stops rolling his hips.

Even now, naked and penetrated and utterly at his mercy, Varian's son is holding himself together. He hasn't begged. He hasn't screamed at all. He hasn't even wept. Nothing.

"I could break you," Garrosh tells him, sneering.

Anduin's lips part, but the threat brings only a faint apprehension to his eyes before he closes them again, rocking his body on Garrosh's. Anduin's skin has ceased emanating the glow, and the tingling feeling fades also, but he reverently whispers once more, and though the strange illumination from within him does not return, the sensation takes Garrosh's cock just as intensely as before.

He thinks about breaking Anduin's neck, but it's not really him thinking it, it's the sickly-sweet, unearthly whispers that come to him now and then. He focuses and pushes the thoughts that aren't his down and away, concentrating instead on the feel of Anduin's lightweight body moving in his lap and around his cock.

Garrosh feels his orgasm building and now he does get on top, pushing Anduin backwards and down. Anduin groans shortly when his back hits the mat, as if the change of position has hurt him somehow. Getting fucked doesn't seem to have injured him, so Garrosh ignores it, holding himself over Anduin and thrusting into him fast and hard. He holds back from locking his teeth in Anduin's neck the way he would with an orc, because with the thin skin of his throat Anduin probably wouldn't survive it, and instead he opens his mouth and shouts as he goes over the edge. Anduin gasps as Garrosh fills him with come. Garrosh feels it spurting out in pulse after furious, blissful pulse, and as Garrosh eases out of his pleasure, the wan softness of Anduin's expression suggests, for just a moment, that he's enjoying it.

Garrosh pulls out and off Anduin as soon as he's done. The prince is easily the smallest person he's ever fucked. Garrosh could crush him to death with only the weight of his body.

Then again, if the bell hadn't finished the job...

As he moves, Garrosh catches the sight of his seed leaking from the wide-open asshole before Anduin slowly shifts his legs closed. He's still hard, and he seems to be in no pain at all, or if he is in pain, he's hiding it well. Anduin looks Garrosh in the eye, and he appears as resolute as when he'd entered the room, if a tiny bit grimmer.

His appearance is deceptive; Anduin is not as weak as Garrosh had once thought. He is runty, but brave. He is infirm, but stoic. He's no warrior, but neither is he helpless. A little survivor, in more ways than one, with inner resources of some sort. They lie there on the woven mat and briefly regard each other.

Garrosh asks the question he didn't realize he'd been wondering until suddenly, this second. "How did you live?"

Anduin looks like he doesn't know how to answer. "I don't know," he says finally. "A good healer. I just did."

Garrosh feels his lips curl around his tusks. Yes. He likes this particular pinkskin. The realization doesn't bother him any; Garrosh isn't one for too much introspection or second-guessing himself. His plans for Anduin had mainly revolved around using him to torment Varian, but he's changed his mind. Well, he can still do that too. Garrosh's chief sentiment for the humans is an overwhelming contempt, but this human is different. He has a grudging respect for Varian's whelp. Extremely grudging. But there.

Strange that Varian would produce a son like this one.

"You're nothing like your father," he says. It's half a compliment, though judging by Anduin's face the prince isn't taking it that way. "Now get out of here."

Anduin looks at him speechless again, and after a moment pushes himself ungainly to his feet.

"Tell the Kor'kron to take you back to the sanctum and chain you up," he tells Anduin, for the boy seems to need a lot of directions, and he lies on his back and closes his eyes. Garrosh has no fear whatsoever to be alone with the whelp, for Light magic or no, he could snap Anduin like a dry twig in two seconds or less. But sleeping in his presence would be a different story. A beaten dog sometimes bites. 

The Kor'kron will know that 'take' means 'carry.' Garrosh has Anduin carried anywhere that's farther than a few steps or crawling distance, because he wouldn't inflict the boredom of waiting on Anduin's crippled, hobbling walk on even a peon.

He summons Kilgan Redlash in the morning, and leaves him in the throne room with Anduin. His specifications are scant: "A few piercings to mark him. Nothing below the waist yet."

Garrosh spends an hour in a war council, going over preparations for the fights that lie ahead. Orgrimmar's defenses are coming along swimmingly; so well, in fact, that although it's not explicitly on the agenda, discussion turns to how and when they will move against the tree rats and the dwarves, and ideas are thrown around. Blackfuse claims he's done the calculations and they can smuggle enough explosives into Ironforge that, if properly placed, can take out the main supports of the city and bring the whole mountain down. It's a bold idea, and Garrosh thinks it might have merit. Certainly it has a touch of the grand-scale about it, a hint of the legendary, fitting for the living legend that he is, and it would wreak total devastation, which is something Garrosh likes. He's found no victory as savory as the kind in which an enemy is obliterated.

He spends a couple of hours sparring with Malkorok and a number of his Kor'kron after that. He used to train one on one, but now a single foe is no challenge at all, for Garrosh is stronger and more powerful than he's ever been. The whispers suggest Malkorok would seek to be warchief himself and that he take Malkorok's head off his shoulders. Garrosh shakes off the hushed alien susurration with relative ease.

Kilgan has an artistic eye, and when Garrosh returns to his throne room, Anduin has a simple piercing in each ear and a thin chain handle hanging almost taut between his bloody nipples. It's good work.

They do another round with Anduin and he leaves Anduin with Malkorok, with the stipulation that he be returned in one piece and with no visible marks. He alludes to his plans for Anduin, and indeed he does have them. When Garrosh presents Varian with his son remade into a deferential camp whore, Garrosh doesn't want so much as a scrape on the prince. Let his father know he chose his new life freely.

But though he doesn't spell it out for Malkorok, there's more to it. Anduin survived him once, somehow. Inexplicably. If anyone is going to break Anduin's spirit, and watch the life sag out of his thin frail limbs, if anyone is going to annihilate the hope in his face before extinguishing the fire that flares in his alert blue eyes--once and for all this time, no mistakes--it's going to be Garrosh. No one else.

This act of destruction, if he chooses to finish it, belongs to him. The creeping, liquid-soft whispers urge him on, but he ignores them.

Garrosh has never kept a pet before.

*

Zaela returns from Elwynn that afternoon, by mage portal. Garrosh is mightily pleased to see her again. Zaela finds him in his rooms and they kiss, passionately, roughly, and with a lot of teeth and tusks. When she draws back, it's to look with amusement at the human kneeling with his head down in the middle of the chamber.

"So the rumors are true," Zaela says with a chuckle. "You have a slave." Garrosh likes the way she talks, slow and strong. A courtship followed by a lifelong love bond is traditional among both their clans, but though they've shared more than the occasional rough fuck, Zaela's expressed no desire for any permanence beyond the incorporation of her Dragonmaw into the Horde.

"I have thousands of slaves," he points out, annoyed that she pulled away. He'd been about to click his tongue and stab a finger at the door to tell Anduin to get out.

"I hear this one is special," Zaela says, grinning. "The lion cub has been tamed?"

"Not much of a feat," Garrosh grumbles. "He was already tame. He doesn't bite."

"You sound so sure, Warchief. Dare I put my hand in his mouth and see?"

The tiny, suggestive quirk of her eyebrow says it all, and his irritation falls away. Garrosh smirks and sweeps a hand towards Anduin, giving his permission.

"Come," she says to Anduin, and boldly she seats herself on a cushion on Garrosh's sleeping mat, and after a glance at Garrosh Anduin crawls over to her.

A small, sadistic smile curves around her tusks as she looks down at Anduin. "Let's see you then, prince of Stormwind," Zaela says, a little mocking, and she takes up the leash about his neck, giving him a scant few inches of slack. Anduin turns his face up to her, and she raises her eyebrow again, waiting now.

Zaela neither moves nor says anything, but at her increasingly impatient expression, Anduin puts a hand over the half-skirt uncertainly.

"I haven't got all day, slave," Zaela snaps, her ire aroused now, making her meaning clear as glass even to the prince: she wants to see all of him.

The boy's cheeks flush pinker than usual as he draws back the cloth. Zaela scoffs at the sight, and she reaches down and unfastens a couple crucial underpinnings in her armor. Zaela can get naked faster than any orc Garrosh has ever fucked. 

Zaela holds his attention as few before her have.

"Let us hope your tongue is more impressive," Zaela says to Anduin, and she settles herself amidst the cushions and parts her legs.

Tugged along with her, Anduin seems to grasp the idea much more hastily this time, and he leans forward and lightly presses his lips to her lower lips.

Garrosh sits next to Zaela to watch more closely. As before Anduin mostly keeps his eyes shut, but he opens them a couple of times to look at Zaela's face, long enough for Garrosh to catch his gaze before Anduin quickly closes them again and continues licking and sucking. Zaela hisses and directs Anduin's mouth into her cunt with a hand on the back of his head as he laps at her, but she's staring at Garrosh, lust in her exposed teeth and narrowed eyes, and she's starting to sweat.

Malkorok had said the boy was decent with his mouth.

"Use your fingers, little slave," Zaela commands harshly, and Anduin works several inside her.

Garrosh had figured on fucking Zaela when she returned from the duty he'd assigned her. He had not planned to do so with Varian's spawn right here, but perhaps he should have; Zaela's sexual aggression is the equal of his own. Anyway the boy's presence hardly matters. Garrosh unlaces his pants and pulls his cock out, hard as stone from watching her. Without warning he pushes Anduin sideways and mounts her. Zaela snarls her approval as he thrusts inside her, and her cunt is all slippery slickness, hot and familiar and just the right amount of tightness. The whispers usually come on him most strongly and persuasively when he fucks and when he fights, but they don't even touch him here.

Zaela claws his bare back and growls like a she-wolf as he fucks her hard, the obedient son of his great enemy sits beside them awkwardly, and it's not what Garrosh had expected with being warchief.

It's better.

*

That evening, with Zaela returned, they have another victory feast. Anduin sits chained by his feet as Garrosh gives a speech to howling cheers. Casks of beer, wine, and rum litter the room, but Garrosh and his champions drink imported goblin tequila. He casts scraps of food down to Varian's whelp as he eats. No one questions his slave's presence, for though he's dressed to humiliate, the boy's position on the dias by Garrosh's feet places him physically higher up than most in the room. But Garrosh has led the Horde to feats of glory Thrall couldn't even have dreamed of. No one questions any of his whims and precious few question his decisions. Garrosh will take what he wants, do what he wants, just as his Horde will.

Garrosh has already had a quantity of drink when he thrusts a full cup down to Anduin, sloshing a little on the boy's bare leg. Anduin raises his eyebrows and accepts it doubtfully, with both hands, and lifts the cup to his lips. His mouth puckers at the taste for a moment.

"Tonight we drink to the end of your kingdom," Garrosh says.

Anduin's neutral expression doesn't change. "As you wish," Anduin says dispassionately, and he takes a second sip.

"Drink it all," Garrosh tells him.

Anduin swallows and is silent a moment, regarding the still nearly-brimming cup in his hands, and then: "I thought you might kill me, Warchief, but not by alcohol poisoning." The boy's voice is quiet, the statement a... it's a joke.

Garrosh stares at him for a second, then half-smiles. Holding Anduin's eyes, Garrosh chugs the contents of his own cup, draining it, and raises it with a bellow to roars and shouts. Chuckling, he goes back to talking to Malkorok and forgets about Anduin for a while. He's not sure how much of the liquor Anduin actually consumes, but the prince does end up intoxicated, slumping against the side of the throne.

Garrosh has a thought to fuck Zaela again that night, but perhaps tired from her endeavors abroad, she retires early, the provocative, openly sexual gleam in her eyes tempering the formality of her salute as she leaves. He will have her again, but not tonight. He could have any number of others, thousands, certainly, with no need for anything more than a crook of his finger. At some point he will have Jaina Proudmoore bathed and brought forth to pay a visit to his mat. But he thinks again of that tingling sensation, like a thousand miniscule fingertips brushing against his cock. He can have anyone he wants, but he can't have a thousand in a night.

But he can feel like he is.

A couple of hours later, at his command, after all his guests have departed and he's sent away even his Kor'kron bodyguards, Anduin lurches into his lap and rides him sitting on his throne. The enormous inner sanctum is a mess of carts and kegs and tables and benches and half-eaten food and drink, but none of it will be cleaned up until tomorrow morning, because he's busy. 

Garrosh can smell the alcohol on Anduin's breath, and the prayer he always whispers for his comfort is indecipherable. Anduin seems perhaps less capable of controlling the Light, the tingling inside him more diffuse, but still very pleasurable, and Anduin seems to be in no greater pain than usual given his drunkenness. Garrosh can hold his liquor better than any orc alive, but by the end of the evening, he hadn't been walking straight. He's rougher than he normally is, but Anduin takes his length readily enough. Anduin is clumsy--he almost tumbles backwards out of Garrosh's lap at one point, and he becomes clingy after that, leaning into Garrosh's chest and hanging onto his shoulders and his neck. Anduin is more vocal than Garrosh has yet heard him, moaning or crying out with every thrust, every breath. He mutters some, too, and Garrosh doesn't catch most of it, but he's fairly sure that at one point, he interprets Anduin slurring that he is "profane." Normally Garrosh would have something to say about that, but he can feel the contents of his balls stirring, the surging pleasure all along his length, and Anduin is too drunk to converse with intelligently, anyway.

Garrosh slams Anduin's hips down forcefully on his when he comes, baring his teeth. Anduin hasn't climaxed, but he is hard. Garrosh wouldn't stop his little pet if the boy went to touch his stiff pink cock, but Garrosh's not about to put that level of effort in himself.

He comes back to reality to find Anduin looking at his lower face queerly. Looking at his mouth. As Garrosh stares at him, Anduin reaches a hand up and tentatively, with one finger, touches one of the smooth silver rings in Garrosh's lower lip. Garrosh feels the hoop's subtle movement, the gentlest twinge. Anduin raises his eyes to Garrosh's as he nudges the ring again, and then the second ring close alongside it, one after the other, like he's ringing bells, before his finger slides to touch the border of Garrosh's lower lip and the sensitive skin beneath it. With Anduin in his lap their faces are very close.

Garrosh tilts his head back an inch, and their gazes stay locked for a few long moments, with Anduin still caressing his mouth. He isn't sure what this is, now, with the steady eye contact and the gentle finger on his lip, and the deepening sense of willing intimacy is not welcome. The whispers come upon him-- _he is insolent, break his feeble neck_ \-- and for a moment he's violently tempted, but still he resists. He can tell the difference between his own inner urges and those shining violet whispers that have taken up residence in his mind.

A small enough price for such power, for himself and for the advancement of his Horde. Garrosh is stronger than those who've come before him. He's managing it. He will continue to manage it.

Anduin keeps stroking his lip in tiny movements, unaware his death is being aggressively advocated, silently whispered as loud as screaming. Garrosh's cock has softened enough to shove the boy firmly backwards and off him, and with a small cry Anduin bodily thumps onto the steps below. Anduin has no idea how close he's come to his own sudden end.

Garrosh sits there for a second, feeling his own iron self-control. Then he descends the stairs around Anduin and departs for his chambers to sleep it off.

*

A day later he orders Anduin unchained and taken to the dungeon where he's holding Varian, because while he's decided against killing the son in front of the father, he isn't going to pass up the opportunity to do a little gloating.

Varian snarls like a rabid animal when he sees his son wearing only his boots and his crown and the short half-skirt that hides so little, and he turns loathing eyes on Garrosh. "I'm going to cut the head from your monstrous body, I swear it," Varian spits, and his chains scrape and rattle as he closes his fingers around them and yanks downward in a futile rage.

Garrosh chuckles at his wrath and claps one large hand on the back of Anduin's neck, casual and possessive, just to grind the axe a little deeper into his enemy's heart. "Control yourself, Varian."

But Varian seems far beyond any hope of self-control, like he's just getting started. "You Light-forsaken bastard, you have no honor, your ancestors must be--"

There's no greater insult to an orc than _you have no honor_ , and Zaela either takes the slight to Garrosh personally or steps up as his enforcer. "Be silent," Zaela commands in her fierce voice. "Or it will go worse for him." Zaela reaches out and seizes Anduin between the legs, delivering a quick squeeze through the skirt. 

Anduin gasps and starts to crumple, and Garrosh tightens his grip on the back of Anduin's neck, holding the boy steady and mostly upright until he's rebalanced himself, breathing jaggedly.

Knowing Zaela, it was a hard squeeze.

Zaela doesn't stop there, either. She bends, pulls a dagger from her boot, and trails the point of the blade down Anduin's torso, stopping it mid-hip against his pale skin. The implication is clear. "No great loss," Zaela says, her battle-ready voice extra loud in the sudden quiet. "It doesn't work."

At her words, still partly bent at the waist, Anduin jerks in Garrosh's grip as if he's been physically struck.

Garrosh keeps his face impassive, though Zaela is a bit crazier than he'd realized. Garrosh has no intention of gelding the boy. The idea disturbs him, in fact, though he's arguably done far worse things. But the stark answering anguish in Varian's eyes is like yet another feast laid before him, and Garrosh can't help but chuckle at the sight. 

For Varian has sobered and gone silent, his lips pressing into a thin line, his fury no less great, but fear has descended on him like a curtain, like a steep slope heading down.

Garrosh looks down at Anduin, whose features are rigid. "Would you like to go to him?" Garrosh asks.

Anduin's eyes flicker up to meet Garrosh's. Anduin hesitates, as if expecting some kind of trap, but he nods.

Garrosh drops his hand from Anduin's neck, and Zaela takes his cue and lowers the dagger. "Then go."

Garrosh can read the lines of Anduin's face and body, more or less, after a few days having him hanging around enduring things he doesn't like. His posture suggests deep anxiety, but Anduin limps to his father and wraps his arms around Varian's muscled torso, leaning against him and resting his head on his father's chest. 

Varian, clearly with Zaela's threat still on his mind, doesn't say anything, and with his arms chained above his head he can't embrace Anduin back. He is too tall and too tightly restrained to be able to kiss the top of Anduin's head, though judging by the way his shoulders strain downward and his chin nearly dips to his chest, he wants tactile contact with his son more than anything. 

Meanwhile Anduin holds his father like he wants to melt into him.

Garrosh seats himself in one of the chairs set against the wall and watches them. Anduin murmurs to his father, but while Garrosh hears the patter of the boy's soft voice, he doesn't catch the words.

Malkorok comes in, sees the prince hugging his father and snorts. He's followed inside by two of the younger and particularly strapping Kor'kron. Garrosh knows his Kor'kron well, and their faces are familiar to him. He gives no indication of his satisfaction, but he approves of Malkorok's selections.

"Whelp," Garrosh says as Malkorok sits in the chair to his left. "Come here."

Anduin obediently releases his father and Varian chokes off a sound in his throat. Anduin swipes at his cheeks with both hands before he turns and limps to Garrosh, and though his face was most obviously wet with tears a moment before, he's visibly steeled himself. But behind the hardness of his mouth and the stone walls in his eyes, there's rawness. Garrosh sees it.

Zaela remains standing, tapping the flat of her knife against her open palm, staring at Varian like she's just waiting for him to fuck up.

Garrosh moves his eyes to his left, and Anduin shifts resignedly to Malkorok, kneeling down before him and waiting for instructions verbal or physical. Malkorok doesn't delay in giving him some. Garrosh can tell by the sounds. But he looks back at Varian.

"I came to paint a picture for you," Garrosh says. "To update you on the condition of your city. Homesick, Varian?" Garrosh gets no answer, so he goes on. "It's empty; no one waits for you there. Most of your people are dead. Some cowards ran into the forest to hide, like rats leaping from a sinking ship. The rest are my slaves.

"The parts that could burn, I left in flames forty feet high. For the rest, I flew in thousands of pounds of ordnance and cannonballs. My engineers planted many of the incendiary devices by hand to take down as much as possible. It was risky moving that quantity of explosives, but the ruins we created were worth it. I razed your pristine white city to the ground. Since you didn't get to see it, I'm going to describe it for you. I remember the sight very clearly."

Varian looks agonized, but he remains silent. Garrosh isn't even sure Varian is hearing him. Garrosh doesn't watch Anduin and Malkorok; he's seen it. He keeps his gaze fixed on Varian. He feels like he could eat Varian's pain, rip it in half like a loaf of grainbread, like he could taste it or reach out and touch it, give it a cruel squeeze of his own.

He's won so thoroughly.

*

Anduin is silent afterwards. Anduin rarely speaks unless spoken to, but the briefest glance at the prince makes it obvious this time is different. A heavy daze is on him, far deeper than his usual alert, quiet demeanor. He seems to be in a stupor, almost, sitting on Garrosh's mat with his vacant eyes fixed on the floor.

It's a good time for a quick talk.

Garrosh goes and sits opposite him on the other side of the mat, resting his back against the wall. Garrosh clicks his tongue twice and the prince crawls to him, sitting within arm's reach and gazing through Garrosh, his expression vague.

"Do you want to be there when he dies?" Garrosh asks, and Anduin awakens from his inner void with abruptness, his dull eyes coming alive again, widening and filling with something like the distilled essence of pleading.

"Please," Anduin says imploringly, giving him the most earnest look Garrosh has ever seen a human wear. "Warchief. Please don't kill him."

"You don't want to be a king?" Reaching around to the back of his head, Garrosh taps Anduin's crown forward, knocking it forward and down to the boy's light eyebrows. "But think what a king you'll be. I'll find you his crown. I bet it's _fancy_."

Anduin flushes, but his voice is urgent. "Spare him, I beg you. Or let me take his place. Kill me and let him live. I'll do anything you ask."

"You already do everything I want," Garrosh says dismissively. "You have nothing more to offer me."

Anduin's eyes widen again, and Garrosh has never seen him so desperate, though he calms his voice and pushes his crown back into place. "I can--I can offer you my allegiance. A leal servant is many times more valuable than a merely obedient one. I see how much you value loyalty in the people around you--in Zaela and Malkorok, and your Kor'kron, they're devoted to you. My leg will recover in time, I can heal you, swear to keep your secrets, even under torture, no matter what happens, even die for you. I'm told --"

Garrosh cuts off his babble. "You have nothing left to bargain with, whelp. Yes or no."

Anduin looks for a split second like he's going to argue further but then thinks better of it. His head droops as though his neck is suddenly tired, and his voice comes out muted. "May I ask one question?"

"Go ahead."

Anduin speaks as one heavily burdened. "Will my decision have any bearing on when?"

"No."

"Then yes," Anduin says. "I want to be by his side as much as you'll allow. But please--"

"Quiet," Garrosh says, and Anduin stops speaking at once. 

Garrosh stays put for a couple of minutes, just looking at his little slave. Anduin sits still in front of him. Garrosh has noticed Anduin does not fidget or make unnecessary movements. Even sitting with no padding on a hard stone floor, he chooses a position and sticks to it for a time. If Anduin is uncomfortable in the silence under Garrosh's gaze, he doesn't show it, though he also doesn't hold Garrosh's eyes.

Finally Garrosh drops the bombshell he's thought over. "I'll spare his life, for a time, if you take care of some executions for me."

Anduin somehow manages to look both resigned, as though he knew some proposition like this would be forthcoming, and yet still crushed. "I can't end a life that way."

"And here you said you'd do anything," Garrosh observes. "Anything I commanded, to save your people. Now it's anything to save your father. Yet you balk at simple killing? The lowest peon can kill." He hooks a finger in the prince's thin belt and pulls, slyly. "I've already made you a whore. Have I made you a liar now too?"

Anduin interprets the tug on his belt as an instruction, and he draws closer. "I could give the orders if I had to, if it was for the greater good," Anduin says tiredly. "I could kill an enemy on the battlefield if we were both armed and on our feet and it was him or me. But not someone defenseless, in cold blood. Not as punishment. I trained as a healer for a reason."

"They're all going to die anyway. Don't you want to save your father?"

Anduin's eyes suddenly narrow with comprehension, and he gives Garrosh a hard and hostile look. "What is it about compromising my principles that so interests you?"

Garrosh feels thoughtful; the query is a valid one. "I can't beat them out of you."

"Why do you care at all?" Anduin asks. His hard gaze relents, and the edge of anger in his voice has faded; he only sounds empty. Garrosh looks at him, and Anduin answers his own question. "Killing me isn't enough for you. You want to destroy me first."

Garrosh doesn't deny it, because he still hasn't decided what Anduin's ultimate fate will be. "Your principles make you weak, and they're going to bring you suffering," Garrosh tells him simply, because that at least is not a complicated matter.

Anduin sighs. He doesn't respond right away, looking down at his skirt, rubbing the edge of the fabric between a thumb and finger. "Be that as it may, life is sacred to me," Anduin says softly. "I wouldn't be sitting here like this if it wasn't."

Sacred. Life is sacred to him. The word gives Garrosh pause, because the boy's philosophy is so pathetic he needs a second to take it in. "You're telling me that if I slapped a knife in your hand and put it to my throat, you wouldn't try to push the blade in."

Anduin's eyes take on a faraway look before he shakes his head. "I don't know."

Garrosh doesn't think he's lying. It's either the truth, or it's horseshit the prince truly believes. With the booted toe of his foot Garrosh prods Anduin's shin a little to get his attention back, and Garrosh stares him down, but the boy stares right back. "If you thought my fealty was something worth having, I could give you a certain no," Anduin says, an edge of steel in his voice again.

"Seems there's a lot you don't know about yourself," Garrosh says. "Don't know how you're alive. Don't know if you'd try to kill an enemy given a sure opportunity." He leans forward, so their faces are only inches apart. "Lots of doubt in you, whelp. That makes you weak, too."

"I'm not weak," the boy objects sharply, and the fire Garrosh remembers from Kun-Lai is back in his eyes.

"You're afraid."

Anduin looks back at him defiantly.

"You're afraid of Zaela," he elaborates, and he leans back a little, but he reaches a hand out to the boy's groin, feeling the slim lines of Anduin's cock under his palm. The reference is not specific, because Garrosh doesn't feel like dwelling on it, but he doesn't have to: a glimmer of fear does dawn in the prince's eyes then, and the sight is like the sun rising. That perfect. That inevitable.

"We've all seen you cringe away from Malkorok," Garrosh says, warming to the topic, wanting to see that glittering flash of fear expand. "Instinctively. Like a cornered animal." Despite the dark nature of the conversation, Anduin's getting hard under his hand. Any sort of touch will do it, apparently. Soft pressure, a single stroke, even a light slap, Anduin's cock always responds, at least initially, before it stutters out like one of Foreman Gibbs' shoddy engines. "Every day he reminds me he wants to impale your corpse on a spike outside with the others, but if not, he'd like to modify you a few ways." Garrosh lets that hang in the air a moment. "You don't need your feet, because you're always going to crawl." Anduin doesn't say anything. "He doesn't think you need your nose.... your eyes... the list goes on."

Anduin blinks, and Garrosh sees the bump in his throat bob the way it does. "I-- I wouldn't be able to see what you want me to do."

Garrosh feels an unwarranted sense of satisfaction that Anduin has consciously realized much of the communication between them is based on Garrosh's pointed visual cues.

"And he says you're good with your mouth. I'd have to have your teeth pulled to find out myself."

Anduin stares at him.

"I could leave the ones here, and here," he says, abandoning Anduin's cock and lazily stroking from near his ear to the corner of the boy's lips on each side. "And only take the ones in front." He traces a generous oval around Anduin's lips. "Or pull them all. I hope you like eating soft things."

Garrosh presses him down to his back on the mat, leaning over him, and as usual Anduin winces at the sudden change of position. The phenomenon is strange, but Garrosh doesn't care enough to find out the reason for it. "I'll leave you some fingers, Zaela likes your fingers." He thrusts two of his own calloused fingers into Anduin's mouth, wetting them, and pulls them out to find the boy's asshole, pushing both inside. Anduin is still loosened and slick with come from earlier, and he endures the penetration silently. He doesn't use the Light; Garrosh awaits the tingling sensation on his fingers but feels only soft inner flesh and wet, tight heat. "We could turn you into nothing but a set of holes and parts to fuck. What do you think about that, whelp?"

"I'm not--" Anduin croaks, and Garrosh interrupts.

"Don't lie. I can see the fear in your eyes."

"Of course I'm afraid," Anduin answers, voice strained. He hesitates, then adds, very quietly, "But I also think you enjoy intimidating me."

Garrosh laughs aloud, because the little prince has some nerve to say that to him after the atrocities Garrosh's just threatened to visit upon him. Garrosh starts to finger-fuck him. "You think because I haven't done any of it yet, I won't?"

Anduin glances up at him uneasily. He squeezes his eyes shut and his mouth opens soundlessly as Garrosh adds another digit and gets more aggressive with his fingerwork. "No. B-but I-- I told... I told my father I'd be brave."

Garrosh snorts. "What else did you tell him?"

Anduin hesitates again before he answers. "To trust in the Light."

"You think your precious Light can save you from me?" Garrosh sneers.

Anduin opens his eyes and gives Garrosh a steady look, and the fear so evident seconds prior has suddenly vanished. The rigid tension in his thighs melts away, his knees fall open a little wider, and even his abused asshole eases a bit around Garrosh's pitiless fingers. "I know it's out of my hands," he says, oddly peaceful.

"At least you're not completely stupid." The boy still hasn't called on his priest's powers, and Garrosh is interested in feeling that strange tingling sensation on his hand. "Use it," he demands, but Anduin looks up at him blankly. "The Light," he growls.

Anduin closes his eyes, seemingly centers himself with a deep breath, and whispers to the empty air, and Garrosh feels the soft electric sensation blossom around his fingers. He's hard, and with his free hand he unlaces his leather pants. Anduin has deft fingers, but Garrosh is impatient, and it's faster to just do it himself.

Garrosh crooks his fingers and presses harder, searching. Anduin almost hits the ceiling when Garrosh finds the spot he seeks. Anduin's whole body jerks as he cries out, and his cock goes from half-hard to jutting upwards and suddenly leaking. Garrosh thrusts his finger against the spot twice more before pulling out.

He doesn't bother with further lubrication, pushing Anduin's legs back and pressing in, in a long, tingling slide.

Anduin's fingers scrabble over his chest, blindly and frantically, and for a second Garrosh thinks he might come, but he recovers himself and visibly internally retreats, dropping his hands, closing his eyes and turning his head to the side.

"Look at me," he says, and Anduin turns his head back to regard him.

Garrosh fucks him for a good while while they stare at each other. He wraps his hand around Anduin's throat before he comes, hearing the whispers: he is a cunning little animal, Garrosh should choke him, strangle him, throttle him until his face turns from white-pink to what the voice promises will be an entrancing blue, but Garrosh masters the urges as he always does and lets go. Afterwards he sits up and leans on a cushion against the wall, wiping his fingers and cock with a rag and then throwing it at Anduin. Anduin catches the cloth against his stomach and holds it to his asshole, avoiding Garrosh's eyes as he sits up more slowly.

Anduin's still hard. "Take care of that," Garrosh tells him.

For the space of a heartbeat, Anduin seems to think Garrosh means the rag he's clutching, and he looks confused. But a second later he processes the command and his cheeks turn pinker. He obeys nonetheless and leans against a cushion before finally moving his hand to his groin, lifting the half-skirt with one hand and wrapping the fingers of the other firmly around his cock.

With a last, restless look at him, Anduin closes his eyes and begins to stroke himself. He squeezes his cock through his foreskin and begins to move the slack fold of skin back and forth, over and over, until watching him becomes boring, and Garrosh reaches over to the basket of scrolls sitting next to his mat, pulling one out and beginning to read slowly.

Minutes pass. Anduin pauses to wind the skirt several times around the belt, tucking it up so he can use both hands between his legs. Garrosh scans a message from Gallywix, tosses the scroll aside and picks up a flat letter, breaking the blue seal on the parchment.

If nothing else, Anduin trying to jerk off in the background adds a new level of entertainment to one of his least favorite aspects of being warchief. Certainly reading his letters is a duty he could delegate to someone else, who could then relay the contents of each piece of correspondence to him, but Garrosh likes to keep his finger on the pulse of his Horde himself. He holds the reins, and he holds them tightly. Thrall never told him that control is power. It's something he learned on his own. 

Garrosh glances back up at him from time to time. A pile of messages later, Anduin's still tugging on his cock, holding and petting his balls in his other hand.

Garrosh watches for another few moments. "Do you fail this badly at everything you do?"

"No," Anduin says, sounding infinitely weary, and he releases his cock and rubs his hand over his face. "I'm sorry. I don't think I can come from anything right now."

Anduin has been turned on so many times and never come, his balls must be full to bursting. Unless Zaela called it, and he's broken somehow. Garrosh frowns. "What's wrong with you?"

"You just had me deliberately-- deliberately debased in front of my father," Anduin says hoarsely, "and you want to know what's wrong with me and why I can't orgasm?"

"Whereas before that you got off so easily." In truth, though he'd given quite a bit of thought to what it would do to Varian, Garrosh hadn't at all considered how his little show might affect Anduin. He glances again at Anduin's cock. Zaela had jacked him once for a minute or so, roughly, and he'd thrust into her hand and moaned but nothing had come of her efforts, and Zaela grew bored and quit. Or so he had thought. Could there be something Zaela knows that he doesn't? Garrosh crumples the dull letter in his hands and tosses it back into the basket, sits up straight and looks at Anduin hard. "What's wrong with your cock?"

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong with it," Anduin says, a little defensive and definitely a little afraid. "I just can't come right now."

"Why not?"

"Because this isn't... what I like," Anduin says, uncertainly, like the answer is so obvious he doesn't want to speak it aloud. "None of this is what I like. I can't come when I'm uncomfortable. I didn't think being your prisoner would be pleasant, or anything, but I didn't expect you would want _this_ from me." The whelp pauses, his lips pulled back as if searching for words, and to indicate he's not done with what he has to say. "I'll try to do what you ask, but... you have me dressed to shame me. You all use me like a whore and Malkorok tortures me. How can you be surprised that I can't... perform like this?"

Humans overcomplicate everything. No wonder he was able to crush them, Garrosh thinks. "Can you at all?"

The salmon color rises in Anduin's cheeks rich and bright, and he appears more uncomfortable under Garrosh's gaze than he's ever been, completely unable to hold his eyes. His cock has begun to shrink as quickly as it always hardens. "Under other circumstances, yes, of course. But I--"

He's not somehow damaged in the genitals, then. Garrosh leans forward, pulls Anduin closer and pushes him down onto his back, cutting off the flow of his words. Garrosh doesn't slam him down, but Anduin grunts at the impact nonetheless.

"You're going to come now," Garrosh tells Anduin and parts his slender legs with a hand.

"I told you, I can't," Anduin says apprehensively, and he rises on his elbows as if in protest, but he doesn't resist or try further to get up.

"And I told you will." Garrosh closes his hand around Anduin's softening pink cock, which finds new life under his touch. It's a matter of pride now, and if it needs to be a show of force that's fine with Garrosh. He slides two fingers back inside Anduin and finds him still open, wet and slippery. With the calloused pad of his index finger resting almost gently on the underside of the tip of Anduin's cock, he jabs the fingers of his other hand hard and precisely.

Anduin's reaction does not disappoint; he shouts wordlessly and thrusts up into Garrosh's hand, his whole body jerking again. His shoulders and the back of his head hit the mat, his cock grows and stiffens up fast, and a few drops of white liquid appear at the tip.

"You must be dying to nut by now," Garrosh observes, and he hits the spot again. Anduin's face and body clench, all his muscles straining in sensory overload. "No wonder you always get hard. Your balls must start churning every time I lay a hand on you."

Anduin shudders, seemingly at his words or the sound of his voice. Garrosh hits the spot again and Anduin trembles all over, his cock swelling a bit more, his little balls tightening, and when Garrosh thrusts his fingers against that smooth-pebbled inner wall one last time, Anduin finally comes with a sharp cry. His eyes are squeezed closed hard, and opaque white fluid shoots out in five distinct spurts, landing in relatively neat lines, each shorter and less far-flung than the last, on his chest and his stomach. The final emission is no more than a dribble down the side.

Shame and relief compete in his features in equal measures afterwards, though his expression soon clears into his usual neutral look, hooding his eyes.

"You're going to learn to like it," Garrosh tells him. He rises and rinses his hands and then his cock in the basin of water on a pedestal off to one side.

Anduin doesn't argue. It's only mid-afternoon, but Anduin's already had a long day; he looks exhausted, drained and even shaken. Garrosh glances back at him for a moment, then jerks his chin at the basin as he walks toward the other room, where one of his many war tables awaits. "Clean up and take off your clothes and sleep."

"In the --"

"In here." Garrosh has things to do, anyway.

Anduin bows his head and says, "Thank you, Warchief."

*

He never sees Anduin glow again, and it's some days before he sees Anduin come for a second time, but Anduin becomes a fixture in his throne room. A display of his power, of his victories past and the days of his dominion to come. He has Anduin moved back and forth between his throne room and his chambers, but Garrosh only keeps him chained up in the former, mostly for the staggering effect Anduin's presentation has on visitors.

The prince is good for further entertainment, in that way--not to mention culling the useless. The mere sight of him bound and mostly undressed works Baine into an enraged froth in a matter of seconds. Baine seems personally aggrieved, and Garrosh can't imagine why, but he does not care. The complaining son of Caine shows himself out, and that's fine with Garrosh. The tauren are a lesser race, too soft and too weak. And never more so than now, while led by a mewling peace-maker like Baine. Garrosh does not want or need them in his Horde.

Gallywix comes when bidden. Gallywix has, in the time Garrosh has known him, never expressed moral qualms about anything, and his reaction to Anduin consists mostly of a laugh and a "Would ya look at that!" He doesn't so much as blink when Garrosh offers him the prince, and Gallywix sets Anduin's crown aside, lays a friendly hand on the top of his head, and uses Anduin's mouth the whole time they're discussing Vol'jin's rebellion. Getting his cock sucked doesn't seem to affect his ability to converse in the least, and he pushes Anduin's head down and comes just as he and Garrosh are finishing their business. Gallywix says, "You're good, kid," and pats Anduin twice on the cheek before he leaves. Garrosh finds himself keeping an eye on Anduin's crown to make sure the regalia doesn't leave with the trade prince. Goblins are all so sticky-fingered.

Then the son of Deathwing, whom Garrosh has heard so much of but who presents as much more diminutive than Garrosh would have expected, shows up actually looking for Anduin. The prince of Stormwind is a popular person, it seems. And the dragon child gets, in his huffy, snooty way, almost as bent out of shape as Baine did.

Aside from fucking him now and then, Garrosh doesn't bother much with Anduin personally for some days. His interest in Varian's pallid son hasn't waned, but matters of empire become foremost in his mind. The dwarves and tree rats begin moving their troops, the rebellion mounting amongst the filth on the Echo Isles froths and threatens to spill over into aggressive revolution, and he receives confirmed reports that Vol'jin is alive. Garrosh's unanticipated magnanimity in discovering the prince of Stormwind lived through their encounter to serve at his feet does not extend to Vol'jin's survival of his hastily planned assassination.

The city readies itself for the battle coming to its gates, and Garrosh oversees many of the preparations personally. Garrosh hadn't foreseen a siege from the combined forces of the Alliance and Vol'jin's, but no matter. The city has a multitude of defenses, each more daunting than the last. No attacker or would-be invader will leave alive.

That traitorous knuckle-dragging maggot will not escape him again.

"Tell me about your friend," he says to Anduin after the Black Prince has come and gone for the second time.

With a glance up at Malkorok, Anduin lets the gray cock slip out of his mouth and starts to turn to Garrosh. Still gripping him by the hair, Malkorok reaches down to hold his organ at the base and slap Anduin several times in the cheek with it. Anduin barely flinches, but casts an intense look of loathing up at Malkorok, who leans forward and casually spits in his face. Anduin starts to wipe off his face with one hand. Garrosh is about to snap at them both, because he asked a question and he doesn't like waiting, but Malkorok says "Leave it" to Anduin with such venom, Garrosh forgets his burgeoning impatience and glances at him. He's continually surprised by how much Malkorok hates Anduin.

Zaela watches this display with him silently.

Anduin turns to him, saliva dripping slow as molasses on his cheek. Garrosh's question has sharpened his eyes, wet from gagging, and his voice is steady. "What do you want to know about him?"

"What good is he to me?"

Anduin thinks it over only briefly. "He's... he's powerful. He can probably do whatever you set him to." An acrid look steals over his face. "He's glad you won, I'm sure," Anduin says with a touch of bitterness. "He wanted one side to conquer. I don't think he cared which one."

Garrosh has heard much the same. "He can't be trusted," Garrosh says to Malkorok and Zaela. "Can he," he adds to Anduin.

Malkorok shakes his head, and Anduin hesitates before answering: "I never trusted him." Despite the pause, Garrosh can tell he isn't lying.

"So then the question is what to do with him."

Malkorok approves of his warchief's reservations, and Garrosh doesn't have to hear anything he has to say to know it. "Execute him outright. You have plenty of reason to already."

"Killing him would be a terrible waste," Zaela argues. "I can break him. There is no dragon alive whose will we cannot master. He will prove no different."

Garrosh doesn't miss the tiny dip of Anduin's chin, or the way his eyes close briefly. It's little longer than a blink, but Garrosh sees. 

He's leaning towards humoring Zaela. "He did ask to serve," Garrosh says to her with a slight smile.

Nazgrim approaches the base of the throne and salutes. Garrosh looks down at him. "Construction on the central external barricades is complete, Warchief."

"Walk with me," Garrosh says to Zaela, and she rises to accompany him. Malkorok forces Anduin's head back down on his cock, and Garrosh leaves them to it. 

The conversation can be finished later.

**Author's Note:**

> Props to anyone who caught the Lloyd Alexander reference. Aayyyyy Dalben.


End file.
